


One of Those Days

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, John has a filthy temper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those Days

He sat in the dark room, cigarettes and scotch on the table to his right, phone on the table to his left. He reached out his hand, picked up the receiver and began to dial. Then he put it down again. It was a pattern he’d been repeating for a while now, ever since he’d stumbled in here, unable to do anything else. He lit another cigarette and tried to think of a way out of the situation he was in. There had to be some solution that didn’t require bending his knee. He just hadn’t found it yet.

_”Bloody fucking hell, Cynthia, get this crap out of the way! You trying to kill me? There’s no fucking insurance. It’s not worth your time.”_

_“Might get me some peace, though,” muttered Cynthia, as she hurried over to pick up the toys Julian had left at the foot of the stairs._

_“What was that?”_

_“Nothing, John. I’ve made a fresh pot of tea. Come and have some.”_

_“Don’t want any bloody tea. I’m going to the studio.”_

_Cynthia smiled at him and leaned in for a kiss, but he brushed her off and set out._

Thing was, he’d actually been in a pretty good mood until then. Paul and he had made some plans for the day, secret plans that didn’t involve guitars in any way, although he was still working on getting Paul to let him record the sounds he made when he came. He even had a start on the lyrics to go with them, something about a moaning tart coming apart. He’d sung them for Paul once, but he remained unconvinced. Still, they had talked on the phone for hours last night – did either Jane or Cyn wonder what they talked about on the phone until all hours of the night? Neither had asked, so maybe not – and John had come down the stairs confident that in a few hours time he’d be naked and sweaty and inside an equally naked and sweaty Paul. Then he’d stepped on the goddamn toys.

Not that he blamed the boy. Cynthia should take better care, that was all. It was her job, after all, looking after the boy.

But it set him up for the day.

_”Fuck, Paul! Can’t you get it right? What’s the problem?”_

_“I beg your pardon?” said Paul, very quietly._

_“For fuck’s sake, son. We’ve been doing the fucking thing for fucking hours. Just play the damn bass line and let’s get on with life.”_

_“It’s been forty minutes, John, not fucking hours, and I’m playing the damn bass line, and if you’d just fucking come in on time we could get on with life. But since you seem incapable of keeping time we’re going to fucking do it again.”_

_“Jesus Christ, Paul, you are such an asshole! I’m keeping time just fine. Aren’t I Ringo?”_

_“Leave me out of this, mate. I’ve got nothing to say about it.”_

_“See? Even Ringo thinks you’ve got no rhythm. Which is a shame, really, given you’re the FUCKING RHYTHM GUITARIST!”_

_“Fuck you, Paul. I know what I’m fucking doing. You, you’d take the heart out of rock and roll. Rehearse it to death. Rock and roll’s supposed to have balls, man, not be all prettied up the way you’d do it.”_

_“So, what? Now I can’t play rock and roll?”_

_“Never could. Good thing you’re pretty and can pull in the birds, or I’d’ve ditched you years ago.”_

_“Take that back.”_

_“What? Pretty Paulie’s feelings are hurt?”_

_“Take it fucking back, John.”_

_“Make me.”_

Well, yes. Things had pretty much gone downhill from there, until he’d found himself on the roof with George, venting about what an asshole Paul was. Of course, when George had made it abundantly clear that he thought John was the one being an asshole, he really had nowhere to go. So he’d gone down to talk to Paul and try to smooth things over. It had worked well enough and they’d managed to get the damn song recorded and finish off the day in a reasonably civil fashion, even managing to laugh a fair bit by the time it was all done.

Then he and Paul had met up in the flat Paul had borrowed for the occasion. One of his arty friends let him borrow the flat, thinking he was having it off with some girl who was not Jane. Well, he was certainly having it off with not-Jane – just with a not-girl also. 

_He’d arrived at the flat first, which annoyed him no end as he didn’t have a key for it. So he’d sat on the steps and waited for Paul, getting increasingly irritated as each minute passed by. Of course, when Paul arrived and reminded him that he’d told him he’d had somewhere to go first, John felt like a complete git – but insisted that Paul hadn’t told him anything of the sort._

_Then he’d tried to pull Paul’s clothes off him, but that hadn’t gone according to plan, either. Paul wanted slow today, wanted sighs and whispers and tender caresses, wanted to tease and play, wanted to take time. John wanted to fuck. He wanted to be inside Paul, his ass or his mouth, he didn’t much care which, wanted to come fast and furious, wanted to wipe this miserable day out of his mind with a blinding flash of ecstasy._

_Usually when this happened they managed to work out a compromise – Paul would blow John, then John would take his time over Paul, working over his body slowly until that moment that he longed for, when, deep inside Paul, all he would hear would be Paul’s voice telling him now now now fuck John come **on** NOW!_

_Today, however, no compromise could be reached. That was his fault, too, he knew. Telling Paul that if he’d wanted someone who was going to behave like a woman he could just have stayed at home and fucked his wife was a mistake, no matter how you looked at it. Of course, Paul could have been a better man and tried to salvage the evening but somehow John had found himself back on the steps, shirt in one hand, shoes in the other, door slammed firmly at his back._

And so he’d gone home, tail between his bloody legs, to find that Cyn had up and taken Julian to visit her mother. There was a very terse note on the mantelpiece and directions for reheating the casserole she’d left in the fridge. 

Well, fuck ‘em all, he’d thought as he skipped the casserole and reached for the scotch instead. 

Two hours and a third of the bottle later he’d decided he would try and call Paul, just to see how bad it really was.

That had been an hour ago, now, and he still hadn’t succeeded in dialing the phone all the way through.

Because, really, what the fuck was he going to do if Paul told him to get lost? 

Because, really, he would be, without Paul. Lost, that is. 

Because, really, he loved Paul. And Paul loved him. And when all else around him was shit he had that to hang on to.

That and a bottle of scotch.

Okay. Deep breath and start to dial.

Or not.

Come on, you can do it. It’s just Paul, after all. Just dial.

Maybe another cigarette first.

Finally, he squared his shoulders, took a last swig of scotch and put his hand on the receiver – just as the phone rang.


End file.
